“Yes,” she said, her tone as cold and sharp as one of the icicles hanging outside the house. “That.”
Nick put down his coffee mug. He ran his hand through his hair. The pity-fuck thing. How could he have forgotten that? Well, he knew how. What he’d said was ugly, worse than ugly, and, he knew damn well, untrue. Somehow, he’d mercifully managed to shove the memory of those words into oblivion.
What man would want to remember such stupidity?
“Obviously, I didn’t mean—”
Lissa folded her arms. “You said what you were thinking.”
“No. I wasn’t thinking that.” He raked his fingers through his hair again. “And if I was, I meant it about me. Not about you.”
“I see. So, what we almost did last night—and didn’t do,” she added, “thank you, God—was because you pitied me.”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. And you’re wrong. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that you—that you were only being, you know, kind—”
Shit.
He was digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole that was bound to collapse on him, and from the way she was looking at him, he’d never be able to dig himself out.
She stalked toward him, that index finger she used with the dexterity of a fencing foil outstretched.
“Get this straight, cowboy. Last night had nothing to do with pity. It had to do with stupidity. Mine. Why I ever thought I’d want to have sex with you is beyond me to—”
Someone coughed.
It was Ace, standing in the arched doorway with snow on his boots, a basket of eggs in his hands, and a look on his face that said he wished the ground would open and swallow him whole.
“Sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Nick adjusted the crutch under his arm and moved toward the door at top speed. Lissa breathed deep, exhaled, forced what she hoped was a smile and took the basket from Ace’s hands.
“Eggs,” she said brightly. “Wonderful! Uh, Mr. Bannister and I were just—we were just talking.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ace started to turn away, hesitated and, instead, looked at Lissa. “His name is Gentry, ma’am. Nick Gentry. Latham Gentry’s kid. We all know that.”
She nodded as she busied herself retrieving the bowl of butter from the fridge, then finding a big bowl, a fork and a spatula. She really didn’t want to discuss Nick or anything about him, but she knew that the foreman meant well.
“I mean, it ain’t just that we recognized his face, it’s that a couple of us knew his old man. There’s been Gentrys on this land for a real long time.”
She nodded again. If this was heading somewhere, she wanted it to reach its destination ASAP.
“His old man was tough. Hard as a rock. After Nick’s mom passed, he clothed and fed the boy, but otherwise he pretty much ignored him.”
She nodded again as she cracked the eggs into the bowl.
“Well,” she said, to fill the silence, “ranching is a tough life.”
“And then this here accident…”
None of this was any of her business. None of it would change Nick Gentry into a nicer man. Still, she heard herself ask the inevitable question.
“What kind of accident was it?”
“Dunno. But it was a bad one.”